


A Study in Toilet

by BaronVonBork



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ew, Other, Pastiche, Toilet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 14:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronVonBork/pseuds/BaronVonBork
Summary: What happens when Dr Watson tries to add some realism to his writing?
Relationships: None
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	A Study in Toilet

Sherlock Holmes discarded the newspaper he had been absorbed in since breakfast causing me to look up from the yellow-back I had been reading.  
“Nothing, Watson,” said he. “Nothing but inaccuracy and mediocrity.”  
“You found no mystery to interest you, then?”  
“There is not enough detail to tell. They omit nearly as much as you do in your accounts of my endeavours.”  
“But the details are all there,” I remonstrated. “I supply all the salient facts.”  
“Ah! But who is to say what is salient? My method is founded upon the observation of trifles, and yet you neglect so many of them. Take your version of the Mary Morstan affair; not once during the whole investigation did you ever record my use of the W.C. Are we really expected to believe my bowel and bladder are so capacious?”  
He was, of course, correct and I was just vowing to rectify this in my future writings when Mrs Hudson ushered in Inspector Gregson to consult Holmes.  
The official detective was decidedly flustered, so while I poured him a brandy and urged him to settle himself, Holmes popped upstairs to the toilet. Soon, Gregson was quite calm, if slightly impatient to get to business.  
When Holmes finally returned to the sitting room, he brought with him a smell of rotting cabbage that indicated his bowel movement had not been a pleasant one.  
“Good day to you, Gregson. You have come from Edgware, I perceive.”  
“Indeed. I confess that, by now, I should not be so confused by your deductions, and yet I am. How did you know?”  
“There is a slight discolouration to the legs of your trousers caused by ammonia rich splashes. The facilities at the Edgware underground station are well known for producing that distinctive pattern of splash-back. It is a simple matter of observation.”  
“Simple to you, perhaps, Mr Holmes.”  
“I assume you have come to consult me about more than urinals, however.”  
“Quite so. It is a grave matter.”  
“Then prey, tell me all.”  
“The details are simple enough and we have plenty of witnesses to verify the facts. Unfortunately they simply do not make sense. It is this way: Thomas Baily is the vicar of St Margaret's Church in Edgware. The church’s pipe organ has been out of service for a while, so yesterday the church held a summer fete in order to raise money for a replacement. Consequently, the grounds of the church were well covered in locals either running stalls or making use of them.”  
“They were all outside?” Holmes interrupted. “They did not make use of the interior of the church?”  
“No. The church is not a big one. Indeed, there is only one door in and out of the building. It would make it quite unsuitable for large crowds milling about. Reverend Baily made use of the good weather and picturesque grounds, instead. All was going well, although the Reverend admits they were nowhere near raising enough money. Then around half an hour after one o’clock Mrs Agatha Wanette, a parish widow, came to speak to the vicar directly. She explained that she had just altered her will in favour of the church. The late Mr Wanette was a rich man so that the money would pay for the organ and much more besides. Obviously Reverend Baily was pleased but asked if an advance might be possible as the organ desperately needed replacing soon. It seems Mrs Wanette was still in her sixties and in rude health so that the delay would likely be considerable. The pair retired inside the church to discuss the matter in privacy. There are dozens of witnesses to testify to this. And there are just as many to swear no one came out.”  
At this point my morning tea caught up with me and I asked Gregson to pause in his narrative while I relieved myself. I had a small wait as Billy the pageboy was already in there. However, I was soon stood at the bowl, legs apart, chap in hand releasing a hot stream of urine.  
“Around quarter of an hour later,” Gregson continued as I returned, “the verger; Colin Goswell, was working in the rear of the churchyard, away from the hullaballoo of the fete. He claims to have heard a scream come from within the church. Concerned, he rushed to the church door to see what was the matter. He found it locked. Knocking provoked no answer from within. He rushed to his nearby house to retrieve his own key. On his return, his visible anxiety garnered a few followers from the stalls nearest the door. Upon unlocking the church and entering they found nothing other than the vicar sat on one of the front pews, reading nonchalantly. They asked what had happened to Mrs Wanette and Baily claimed that she had just left following a quarrel over money.”  
“That seems perfectly normal,” said I, somewhat confused.  
“I’m afraid not, Doctor. For there is no way she could have left the church without being seen. And the stall-holders all swear that she did not leave. The verger sent for the police at once. Since then, we have checked her home and that of her sister. She never returned from the church. When we questioned the vicar he became most suspicious. Rather than concern for his missing parishioner, his first reaction was to ask how long a person must remain missing before they can be declared legally dead. He seemed wholly absorbed by the idea of getting his hands on Agatha Wanette’s bequest. The vicar was detained while we searched the church, for by now we strongly suspected foul play. However, there is no sign of violence, nor of the missing widow. Without a body, we were forced to release the vicar, but we have stationed men to watch him.”  
“What has he been doing since his release?”  
“Since returning he has not left St Margaret’s. But he does appear to be confident that the inheritance will come to him, as he has begun ordering repairs already. He has, for instance, made arrangements for the broken pipe organ to be removed from the church despite not having been able to pay for its replacement.”  
Holmes sat up, alarmed.  
“We must go to St Margaret’s at once!” he declared.  
And while I collected our hats and coats, he popped to the latrine to make sure he was empty before the journey.

When we arrived at the church, we were greeted by Thomas Baily. He was a tall man, athletically built for a clergyman, and he radiated a serene calmness that is common to spiritual men. His welcomes were unusually warm considering the purpose of our visit and Holmes lost no time asking where the toilet was. Gregson and I sat on one of the pews and waited for Holmes to return. I made small talk with the reverend about his hopes for a new pipe organ.  
“This old one has had troubles for a long while now. When the bellows finally gave out in Spring, we were forced to retire it. As you can see, we are already having it dismantled so we can remove it.”  
“It could not be repaired?”  
“Perhaps. But with Mrs Wanette’s money soon to be donated to the church, there is no need. No, much better to replace it with a more reliable instrument.”  
We continued to converse on such topics as the benefits of a mechanical bellow over a manual one, how to select pipes and the advantages of various racks.  
Ten minutes or so later, Holmes returned.  
“I’m sorry to delay you all. I’m afraid my movements have been somewhat erratic lately, and the sheer size of the faecal object I just produced, required several flushes before I could convince it to depart. Please pass on my apologies to your cleaner, Reverend.”  
“Don’t mention it, Mr Holmes. The cistern in that lavatory is not up to the job as it once was. Once I have replaced the organ, it was next on my list of necessary renovations.”  
“Ah yes, the organ! What seems to be the trouble with it?”  
“The bellows,” I interrupted. “Mr Baily has just been telling me all about it.”  
“Ah! I happen to have written a monograph upon the mechanics of pipe organs. Perhaps if I were to take a look, I might be able to fix the…”  
“No, thank you! That won’t be necessary!” exclaimed the vicar, interposing himself between detective and organ. “It is being collected this afternoon for disposal. Your interference won’t make any difference.”  
“Mr Baily,” Holmes rejoined, “I won’t touch it if you would prefer me not to. But I must say that your uncharacteristic vehemence is quite suspicious.”  
“You suspect me, Mr Holmes? What of, may I ask? It seems that if you are going to come into my church with unpleasant opinions about me, you should do the decent thing and come out with them to my face.”  
“I suspect you, Mr Baily, of the murder of Mrs Agatha Wanette. You needed her money, but she was not prepared to part with it until she was dead. You invited her into this church to try to change her mind. When she would not, you overpowered her, she screamed, you killed her. Realising you were surrounded by potential witnesses, you immediately locked the church door.”  
“Then where is her body, Mr Holmes?” replied the vicar, whose face was now contorted into a hateful scowl. “You know very well, that you cannot convict a man of murder without first producing a body. No body – no murder. I might sue for slander, if you continue.”  
“Oh, I shall produce her body.” Holmes responded. A familiar, silently produced, eggy smell told me that was not all that Holmes needed to produce.  
Gently but firmly pushing the clergyman out of his way, Holmes marched over to the bellows of the dismantled pipe organ. He undid a few fastenings and removed the side panel. My nerves had been hardened in my youth by the horrors of war. Yet, the sight of the mangled body of Mrs Agatha Wanette folded into itself in the bellows of a church pipe organ caused my bile to rise and my head to swim. So squashed was she, it was impossible to tell where one limb started and another ended. As she was removed by two sturdy constables, it was clear almost every bone in her body had been broken and the bruises to her throat testified as the manner in which Thomas Bailey had dispatched her to the afterlife.  
“I believe you have the whole of your case, Gregson,” remarked Holmes. “Now, you will excuse me while I pay another sit-down visit to the toilet, for it seems I hadn’t finished after all.”


End file.
